






















































































































































* • 
















































The ever-busy crutch fell unheeded to the floor and Aunt 
Cheerful Loring fell sobbing to her knees. 



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Copyright 1913 and 1914, by 
McBride, Nast & Co. 


F'Z - 3 ■ 

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Second Printing 
September, 1914 


Published October, 1914 


3CT 20 1914 

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©CI.A387104 

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TO MY FRIEND 

EDWARD FRANK ALLEN 
























Contents; 

PAGE 

I The Cottage in the Pines .... 13 

II “Lord Chesterfield” 31 

III The Invisible Guest 49 

IV Son Robert’s Letter 63 

V The Little Hermit 79 

VI From the Shadow of the PinI-boughs 91 

VII “Lady Ariel” 103 

VIII The Lady of the Fire-glow . . . .117 




Cfce 3llu0tratiott0 


The ever-busy crutch fell unheeded to the floor 
and Aunt Cheerful Loring fell sobbing to 
her knees Frontispiece 

PACING 

PAGE 

The boy seated himself upon the window sill and 
doffed his dripping cap with the air of a 
gallant 34 






So by the window the Lady Ariel and Aunt 
Cheerful gaily made crimson chains for a 
Christmas tree 64 

Jean drew forth the pitiful little canvas bag and 

stuffed it full of greenbacks 112 


I 





Jftt % %art at the 

Cfynatmaa flutes 


^^^^•^HROUGH the chill rain of the 
M * J December twilight a train 
crept slowly up the valley like 
a storm-beaten glow-worm, its single 
Pullman passenger a woman, youthful 
and yet mature, whose beauty was 
marred by indefinable shadows in the 
beautiful gray eyes and hard and bitter 
lines about the mouth. It had been a 
long and tiresome journey through a sod- 
den world roofed with a marquee of 
—Hr- 


Jtt tfje l^eart 

mist; three days of cloud and rain from 
her lonely home in Denver to the goal 
ahead, an unfamiliar village of which 
her hazy mental picture had been in- 
spired by the imagery of a friend. 

A ruined mill with dripping eaves, a 
grinding shudder of brakes, and the train 
halted. With quick interest in her eyes, 
the traveler alighted, but outside on the 
sodden village platform her interest fled 
panic-stricken in an overpowering 
surge of loneliness and dismay. Surely, 
surely, thought Jean Varian, a bleak 
enough goal for her odd caprice ! Great, 
wind-beaten trees dripped above the vil- 
lage and the covered bridge ; fog-ridden 
hills towered in the distance like ghostly 
gables of the valley; and at the head of 
14 


of tfce Cfmstmag pfnc$ 

the street in the old-fashioned hotel to 
which days before she had whimsically 
written for rooms, only a single unprom- 
ising light flickered dully through the 
wind and rain. 

But the night was settling rapidly and 
with a careless direction to the staring 
baggageman, Jean Varian turned away 
into the muddy street and made her way 
to the hotel where a man in boots with 
a bucket in his hand was stumping 
heavily away from the pump to the long, 
low hitching sheds beyond. 

It was essentially rural in its homely 
comfort, the Westowe House, with 
brightly colored cornucopias in the par- 
lor carpet and hair-cloth parlor furniture 
blotched with tidies that tobogganed 

15 


In the l^eatt 

dizzily to the floor at a touch; but Mrs. 
Pryce, the proprietor’s wife, was stout 
and ruddy and so frankly and intimately 
curious that Jean kept to her room for 
the greater part of the day that followed. 

The rain continued. Outside, the sta- 
ble-man tramped noisily about among 
the steaming horses, the pump creaked 
under frequent duress; Mrs. Pryce was 
insistently hospitable and insistently 
curious ; and at twilight, appalled by the 
dreary monotony of it all, Jean restlessly 
set forth to explore the village. It was 
already dark when in her careless circuit 
she approached the railroad. The night 
train was puffing leisurely past the 
sheep-pen and a man was tramping to- 
ward the post-office with a mail-bag 
16 


of the Christmas pfttes 

over his shoulder. Ahead with a prom- 
ise of further monotony and curiosity 
flickered the lights of the Westowe 
House. Jean’s footsteps lagged. 

Now just behind the station, parallel 
with the glistening rails, lay a country 
lane, and down this, in the heart of the 
rain and dark, twinkled a single light so 
cheerful and inviting that Jean halted 
unconsciously. Vaguely she remem- 
bered having caught its elfin glimmer 
the night before, but now as she watched, 
it twinkled so irresistibly with an infer- 
ential atmosphere of warmth and cheer 
that the girl gathered her wet cloak 
about her and set off toward it in a pleas- 
ant glow of curiosity. 

A smell of wet pine filled the lane, but 
17 


3n tfje ^eatt 


though the way was very dark and a 
little lonely, Jean Varian hurried on, 
halting at last with a smothered sigh of 
envy. For here in the heart of the drip- 
ping pine-trees, lay a tiny cottage, so 
white and trim and cheery that even the 
croon of the gallant pines that brushed 
the roof bore in it nothing of the 
night’s melancholy. Now the light that 
twinkled among the pine-needles and 
the rain-glisten of the night came from 
a lamp held through an open porch-win- 
dow from within by the hand of a tiny 
woman with a shawl about her head, and 
even as Jean stared wonderingly, the 
watcher in the window spoke. 

“ Good evening!” she called brightly. 
“It is so very windy and wet to-night. 

18 


of the Chrt0tma0 pttte 0 

Perhaps I can persuade you to step in 
and have a cup of hot tea with me !” 

“But — but,” stammered Jean from the 
rain and shadows, “I — I did not dream 
you could see me!” 

“Why, neither I can, my dear !” briskly 
replied the little woman, “but many a 
cold and weary straggler from the night 
train sees my light and whenever I call 
there is, as a rule, an answer! And 
now,” — with an energetic cordiality 
wonderfully compelling — “if you will 
please come straight up the walk and 
open the front door, you’ll find a fire 
and a welcome just as warm. Why, 
bless your tired heart,” she added with a 
quick, birdlike turn of her muffled head 
that brought the light upon her face, 
19 


3n fibe 

“my kettle is singing away here like a 
cricket. Do hurry !” 

Wonderingly, Jean obeyed. Who 
could withstand the irresistible warmth 
of the little woman’s hospitality? And 
with the opening of the cottage door, the 
astonished guest left all the chill and 
melancholy of the winter night behind 
her, for here in a snugly-curtained room 
roared a rollicking, jovial blade of a 
wood-fire, waggishly throwing the re- 
flection of his ever-busy fire-sword upon 
the old-fashioned walls and checker- 
board carpet, the oval portraits and the 
snowy supper cloth, trimly decked in 
china blue, all the while filling the room 
with his boisterous crackles and chuckles 
of delight ! And steaming madly away 


20 


of the Christmas pjtte$ 

in spirited rivalry over an alcohol blaze, 
a handsome brass kettle, ludicrously fat 
and complacent, hummed a throaty jubi- 
late of self-approval. Surely the splen- 
did emperor of all kettles! thought Jean 
Varian, smiling, this exuberant egotist 
with his polished armor and his plume 
of steam! 

“And such a vain fellow, too, my 
dear !” chirped an amused voice at Jean’s 
elbow, “but then he’s such a very cheer- 
ful comrade I forgive him that !” and the 
girl starting, found herself smiling 
warmly down into the face of her hostess. 

And what a tiny hostess she was to be 
sure, quite as trim and picturesque in her 
white woolen gown as the cottage itself. 
Snow-white, too, her hair, framing a fine 


21 


In t&e l^eart 

old face with eyes of china blue, eyes so 
bright and friendly that Jean uncon- 
sciously likened them to the light among 
the pines. And like the odor of pine 
about the cottage, an aura of cheeriness 
hovered about the owner. 

Now presently, as the hospitable little 
woman went bustling about, intent upon 
the comfort of her unknown guest in the 
chair by the fire, Jean saw with a sudden 
husk in her throat that this cheerful little 
hostess of hers was very lame ; that wher- 
ever she went a tiny crutch, half-hidden 
beneath a fold of her gown, went tap! 
tap! tapping! steadily along, as 
sprightly and energetic a crutch as one 
might find, and somehow the bitterness 
in the traveler’s eyes softened at the 


22 


of t&e C&ti$tma0 Jpine0 

sight of it and her beautiful face warmed 
into kindliness. 

“Do please let me help you!” she 
begged suddenly. And so these two 
women, brought together by the whim 
of the one and the kindliness of the other 
and perhaps by a floating strand of Fate, 
worked busily together over the making 
of the tea, the one with the unaccus- 
tomed hands of the aristocrat; the other 
with the deft experience of cheerful self- 
dependence. 

Tap! tap! tap! went the crutch about 
the room; drip! drip! drip! the rain 
among the pines; the steaming Emperor 
hummed and the fire chuckled and in the 
midst of it all, the hostess suddenly 
halted. 


23 


In t&e ^eart 

“Now, my dear,” she exclaimed, with 
swift color in her wrinkled cheeks, “the 
very foolish folk of Westowe call me 
Aunt Cheerful and I’d like to have you 
do the same, for although it’s a very fool- 
ish name indeed, still I’m only a very 
foolish old woman and I’m very fond of 
it.” 

Aunt Cheerful! Jean glanced at the 
slight figure leaning lightly upon her 
crutch with a sudden mist across her 
eyes. 

“Aunt Cheerful it shall be indeed!” 
she said gently. 

“And my lane here they call Pine Tree 
Lane, because at either end you may 
catch the pleasant odor of my pines. 
And the cottage — well, what else could 
24 


of tfje Cf)d0tma0 Pine0 

it be, my dear, but Pine Tree Cot- 
tage !” 

With a sudden impulse Aunt Cheer- 
ful crossed the room with a quick tap! 
tap ! of her crutch and laid a small hand 
impulsively upon Jean’s arm. 

“My dear,” she said wistfully, “you’ll 
pardon a lonely old woman her frank- 
ness? I’ve taken a very great fancy to 
you! Why not stay to supper with 
me?” 

“Oh, no, no!” protested Jean quickly; 
“I — you are too kind !” She glanced at 
the little supper table set for three and 
Aunt Cheerful smiled. 

“Only a foolish fancy!” she nodded. 
“In reality, my dear, I live alone, quite 
alone!” 


25 


In t&e l^eatt 

And later, her protests engulfed in the 



hubbub of calming the indignant Em- 


peror sputtering fussily over this unpre- 
cedented neglect, Jean came to learn 


more fully of this “foolish fancy.” 


Quietly Aunt Cheerful added a fourth 
place at the table and with ready tact 


Jean slipped into it unquestioning. 

“My dear,” exclaimed Aunt Cheerful 
quickly, “I thank you!” then, catching 
the warm friendliness and sympathy in 
the eyes of her guest, she colored. 

“Oh, my dear,” she burst forth, 
“never, never was there such a foolish 
old woman as I. I’m sure vou will not 



of tfce C&dstmas pineg 

like this when the rain drips through the 


pines or the snow polka-dots the lane 
and the ghostly wind comes rattling my 



windows, I like to pretend that he’s there 
in his chair, big and gallant and hand- 
some as always, and then I — I sometimes 
talk aloud to him and pass him the 
dishes I know he likes. Just a foolish 
mother’s game,” she added, flushing 
hotly, “and I — I do not know why it is 
I have told you my weakness. Surely,” 
with quick apology, “you must think me 
very silly indeed!” 




“Oh, no, no, no!” cried Jean, an odd 
catch in her voice, “I think it is all very 
beautiful!” and Aunt Cheerful’s face 
grew radiant. 

“Do you indeed!” she exclaimed, 
27 








Jn tfce l^eart of tfje C&ristmas pines 

beaming. “Well, now, I am pleased. 
I’ve always feared it was very weak and 
silly!” Then, suddenly struck by the 
rich color in her guest’s cheeks and the 
wonderful gentleness that had magic- 
ally obscured the shadows in the girl’s 
fine eyes, she added delightedly, “Why, 
how refreshed you are looking, child! 
Dear me, I do believe I’ll keep you over 
night. No, not a word, my dear! Just 
hear the rain and the wind. Why bless 
your heart, that’s answer enough!” 


2 8 



























II 


Emperor retired with a 
f ^ 1 drowsy bubble; the busy Fire- 
blusterer astride the smoulder- 
ing log replaced his sword of flame in 
a sheath of embers, and Aunt Cheerful’s 
room settled into shadowy quiet with 
only the sleepy glow of the fire to light 
it. By the window, blocked from the 
room by a screen, a lamp sent its bright 
rays through the pines to light the dark 
of the lane beyond. 

“And now,” exclaimed Aunt Cheerful 
from her chair by the fire, “is the time, 
my dear, when I always see my Lady of 
3i 


the Fireglow in her flame-colored satin ! 
Jewels of fire flash about her throat and 
hair, and very beautiful she is too, I 
fancy, though to be sure I am never able 
to catch a glimpse of her face!” Aunt 
Cheerful smiled across the firelit hearth 
at the shadowy figure of her guest. 
“And the third place at the table,” she 
owned wistfully, “is always for her, for 
somehow to me she is the fire’s promise of 
the kind and beautiful wife who may 
one day come into my big son’s life and 
therefore into mine !” 

The clock above the mantel struck 
nine and to Jean’s astonishment a win- 
dow beside the screen was suddenly 
raised from the porch side and a boy’s 
head and shoulders appeared, plainly 


of the Christmas Pines 

visible in the fan of light from the hid- 
den lamp. Not a very large boy — 
surely a scant dozen years lay behind 
him! — but a strangely self-possessed 
little chap nevertheless, with damp, 
waving hair, a grim little chin, and 
cheeks as rosy as the apple of health 
itself. 

Now as Jean watched from her 
shadowy corner, the boy carefully 
shifted his oil-skin packet of papers, 
seated himself upon the window sill and 
doffed his dripping cap with the air of 
a court gallant. And mortal ears never 
heard a stranger conversation. 

“Good evening, Lady Cheerful!” he 
said deferentially, his grave brown eyes 
seeking the spot by the fire where Aunt 
33 


In tfre ^eatt 

Cheerful’s white woolen gown glim- 
mered faintly in the firelight. 

“Why, good evening, Lord Chester- 
field!” returned Aunt Cheerful, a won- 
derful warmth and affection in her 
voice ; “I trust I see you well this even- 
ing, sir?” 

“Very well indeed, I thank you, 
ma’am! I trust,” he added very po- 
litely, “that your Ladyship is enjoying 
good health?” 

“I am indeed. May I venture to ask 
your Lordship how you have found busi- 
ness this evening?” 

Lord Chesterfield looked gravely at 
the dripping oilskin. 

“The night is very wet,” he admitted, 
“and business poor!” 

34 



The boy seated himself upon the window-sill and /doffed 
his dripping* cap with the air of a gallant. 














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The boy seated himself upon the window-sill and doffed 
his dripping cap with the air of a gallant. 




of the Christmas Pttte0 

“Dear, dear ! What a pity !” 

“But, as usual, I have given myself 
the honor of stopping at the post-office 
for your Ladyship’s mail.” 

“Kindly and courteous and thought- 
ful as ever!” nodded Aunt Cheerful. 
Lord Chesterfield’s cheeks reddened with 
pleasure. 

“There was nothing!” he said regret- 
fully. “Now as to the news” — frown- 
ing thoughtfully — “Mrs. Bobbins’ twins 
have the measles.” 

“Well, now, I am sorry!” exclaimed 
Aunt Cheerful sympathetically. 

“And Grandmother Radcliffe’s cow 
’pears to be growing more mopey and 
blue each day. She bellows terrible 
mournful.” 


35 


3tt t | )t J^eatt 

“I can’t imagine,” mused Aunt Cheer- 
ful, “what can be the matter with that 
poor cow!” 

“The strange lady at the hotel went 
walking to-night in the rain and she’s 
not back yet. Most likely she’s gone 
a-visitin’.” 

“Hum!” said Aunt Cheerful. 

“And then” — Lord Chesterfield 
cleared his throat — “I wouldn’t tell you 
this, ma’am, but your Ladyship would 
surely ask me. I’m sorry to have to tell 
you that there’s another leak in that roof 
of mine.” 

“Another leak! Oh, my dear boy!” 
exclaimed Aunt Cheerful in dismay, 
startled out of her court manners by her 
quick solicitude. 


36 


of tfce Ci)ri0tma0 lpitte0 

“It is nothing, madam, I assure you!” 
urged Lord Chesterfield gallantly, “I’ve 
got mos’ a pound of chewin’ gum from 
the boys to mend it with. They took up 
a chewing gum subscription,” he added 
gratefully. 

“Lord Chesterfield,” said Aunt Cheer- 
ful very soberly, “I’m afraid you’ll have 
to give up that hermit hut of yours. It’s 
growing very leaky! You’ve thought 
over very, very carefully that proposi- 
tion of coming to live with me?” 

“Very carefully, ma’am, I thank you !” 
said Lord Chesterfield firmly. “I’m 
afraid I prefer to stay a bachelor.” 

“And may I venture a question con- 
cerning the health of your Lordship’s 
many patients?” 


37 


3tt t be ^eart 

“All doing nicely, ma’am, very 
nicely.” 

With a quick twist of his arm, the 
bachelor dropped a newspaper within 
and rising bowed, a gallant little figure 
of a gentleman framed in the lamp-glow. 

“Allow me to present your Ladyship 
with one of my papers!” he said courte- 
ously. 

“And allow me to thank you for it!” 
interposed Aunt Cheerful gently. 

Again the boy raised his tattered cap 
and smiled, a grave little smile for all 
its brightness. 

“Good night, Lady Cheerful !” he said. 

“Good night, Lord Chesterfield and 
remember — any time your bachelor life 
grows too lonely — ” 

38 


of the Christmas Pines 

But Lord Chesterfield was off into the 
shadows of the dripping lane, whistling 
as cheerily as a robin. 

Aunt Cheerful turned to the mystified 
guest at her fireside. 

“Oh, my dear,” she exclaimed grate- 
fully, “how very tactful of you to make 
no sound. The presence of a stranger 
would have confused him so! Just a 
little game we play each night, Lord 
Chesterfield and I — ” 

“What a dear little lad he is!” ex- 
claimed Jean. 

Aunt Cheerful bent and turned the 
dying log. 

“A kindly, courteous little gentleman, 
ever-mindful of my poor lame foot;” she 
said thoughtfully, “with his proud, boy- 
39 


In t i)c l^cart 

ish heart afire with dreams — dreams of 
becoming a very great doctor and a gal- 
lant gentleman. Why, my dear, his 
father was such a queer hermit who lived 
with this little son of his in a ruined 
shack along the river, a ragged, hand- 
some, silent man of very great culture, 
’twas said, and this fall when he died the 
boy refused to leave his crazy hut. A 
chore here and a chore there, so he lives, 
a wee, lovable, busy little hermit, selling 
his newspapers, sweeping out the school 
and the church, and doctoring all the 
sick animals about with arnica and 
witch-hazel. To be sure a hundred 
friendly eyes in Westowe watch over 
him in secret but few dare offer him any 
aid.” 


40 


of ti)e Cfcti0tma0 Pfne 0 

“But why ‘Lord Chesterfield’ 1 ?” 

“I have read him such portions of Lord 
Chesterfield as I deemed suitable,” re- 
plied Aunt Cheerful, “and we play our 
little game at his request that he may 
grow familiar with the ways and words 
of gentlemen.” 

And Jean Varian brushed something 
away from her long dark lashes that 
sparkled suspiciously like a tear. Surely 
Aunt Cheerful and gallant Lord Ches- 
terfield were worth the many, many 
miles of the rainy journey! 

“And now, my dear, to bed!” sug- 
gested Aunt Cheerful, smiling and with 
a busy tap! tap! of her crutch she was 
briskly leading the way up the wind- 
ing stairway to a room above. 

41 


Jtt the J^eatt 

A smell of pine, the lighting of a lamp, 
the quick crackle of dry wood as Aunt 
Cheerful bent over a tiny fire-place, and 
Jean uttered a cry of admiration. Pine 
cones and branches showered in pattern 
across the wall-paper and the carpet; 
pine-sprigged chintz covered the old- 
fashioned chairs, and from somewhere a 
pine pillow gave forth the fragrance of 
the winter forest. 

“My Pine Bough Bedroom!” ex- 
claimed Aunt Cheerful delightedly; 
“and how glad I am you like it. And 
I furnished it so, my dear, in a little 
wave of superstition. An old and 
wrinkled gypsy was passing through my 
lane and when I called her in for a cup 
of tea, what do you suppose she said? 

42 


of the Christmas Pines 

‘Kind lady, great happiness will come 
to you one day in the heart of the Christ- 
mas pines!’ Doubtless an idle phrase 
that came to her with the smell of the 
pine but I often think of it. Good 
night, my dear.” 

But Jean laid an impetuous hand 
upon the old lady’s shoulder. 

“Aunt Cheerful,” she said gently, 
“you have not once asked me my name !” 

“Why neither I have, my dear,” 
nodded Aunt Cheerful, “but then I fan- 
cied you would tell me yourself if you 
wished me to know.” 

Jean colored hotly. 

“Aunt Cheerful,” she said hurriedly, 
“there are reasons, for a time at least, 
why — why I can not tell you my name 
43 


or why I have come to Westowe! Oh, 
I do hope you will not misunderstand 
me. May I not,” she added pleadingly, 
“join in name that little group of no- 
bility to which Lord Chesterfield and 
Lady Cheerful belong?” 

“Why to be sure, you may!” ex- 
claimed Aunt Cheerful, smiling. “I 
shall call you the Lady Ariel for you 
came to me like a beautiful spirit out of 
the wind and rain. Good night, dear.” 

Very thoughtfully, Jean ldosened the 
shining masses of her dark hair and 
brushed it. 


“The Lady Ariel!” she mused, smil- 


ing. “And surely as whimsical a guest 
a 
s ' 

\ 


as any spirit of the air might be.” Ab- 
sently the girl’s eyes rested upon a book, 


AA 


of t&e Cf)tistma0 Pine0 



exquisitely bound in Levant, on a table 
near-by. It bore the title “Songs of 
Cheer” and with a smile at the eternal 
cheeriness of this chance shelter of hers, 
the girl opened it. 

“To my cheerful little mother,” 

read the inscription in a man’s bold 
handwriting, 


“For every line seems a fragrant breath of her. 

“Robert Loring. 
“Thanksgiving, Nineteen Eleven.” 




And as the Lady Ariel read, her beau- 
tiful face flamed scarlet, and shaking 
queerly, she dropped to her knees by the 
snowy bed, all her superb self-possession 
gone in a passionate fit of weeping. 

Brush! brush! went the dripping 


45 






cr- 






\ 

-.5 Mi 


n 


■ t 




3tt tbe ^eatt of tjje Christmas pines 

pines against the window in a ceaseless 
monody, and presently this very strange 
guest of Aunt Cheerful’s raised her head. 
Very white and strained her face but her 
eyes were shining. 

“ ‘The leper no longer crouched at his side,’ ” 

she quoted softly; 

“ ‘But stood before him glorified, 

Shining and tall and fair and straight 
As the pillar that stood by the Beautiful 
Gate. 


And the Voice that was calmer than silence 
said, 

“Lo, it is I, be not afraid! 

In many climes, without avail, 

Thou hast spent thy life for the Holy Grail 
Behold it is here!” ’ ” 

46 







Ill 


O AWN etched a shadowy lace of 
pine branches across the win- 
dow of the Lady Ariel’s Pine 
Bough Chamber, and with a quick thrill 
of realization Jean rose. In the night 
the rain had turned to snow, lightly 
thatching the ground in white, and 
ghost-like through the dawn loomed 
Aunt Cheerful’s pines, hung with snowy 
tippets of ragged fur. From her win- 
dow, Jean wonderingly watched a sturdy 
little figure appear among the pines be- 
low and halt at the wood-pile where he 
busily began to split kindlings, whistling 
49 


In the J^eatt 

very softly to himself and glancing fur- 
tively at the silent cottage. The kin- 
dlings neatly stacked on the cottage 
porch, this rosy-cheeked little wood-chop- 
per of the dawn briskly swept the snow 
from the walks and porch, carefully re- 
moved a sodden sheet of paper from the 
trim garden, and vanished stealthily 
again among the pines. 

Now although Lady Ariel was never 
quite sure just how it all came about, 
night found her still at Pine Tree Cot- 
tage, and again at dawn she watched 
Lord Chesterfield at his furtive tasks. 
And so, eventually, swept away again 
and again by the warmth of Aunt Cheer- 
ful’s hospitality, Jean came to linger on 
at the cottage in the pines, thrilled un- 
5 ° 


of flje Cfcnotmas pittes 

accountably by the unquestioning 
friendliness of her cheery hostess. 

Each night when the mail train came 
in, Aunt Cheerful’s lamp flashed its 
friendly message through the pines ; each 
night her birdlike voice carried its in- 
vitation into the dark of the lane. And 
sometimes it was a weary villager, hom- 
ing through the twilight, who answered 
her call and sometimes an astonished 
stranger lured into the lane by the smell 
of the pine and the brightness of her 
light. But to all the welcome was the 
same. Aunt Cheerful’s cosmic hospital- 
ity made no distinctions, and presently 
Jean came to know that the fame of Pine 
Tree Cottage was county-wide. 

And as regularly as the lamp flashed 
5 * 


Jin the ibeatt 


among the pines, so in mid-evening came 
Lord Chesterfield with his Lady’s mail 
and her paper, his courteous queries for 
her Ladyship’s health and his relishful 
exposition of the village news. Brave, 
kindly little hermit! Jean’s heart 
warmed to his boyish gallantry. And 
presently when the first constraint had 
worn away, Lord Chesterfield’s courtly 
queries from the window-sill included 
the health of the Lady Ariel. 

Nights by the fire there was much talk, 
too, of the beautiful Lady of the Fire- 
glow and Jean grew to marvel at the 
wealth of love steadily piling up in the 
heart of Aunt Cheerful for Son Robert’s 
sometime wife. As for “Son Robert” 
himself, the caress in Aunt Cheer- 
52 


of tfce Cfirfetmas Pitte0 

ful’s voice when she spoke his name, 
thrilled her guest indescribably. Fly- 
ing mother-winged about the night’s 
sleepy fireglow, there were eloquent 
tales of his boyhood daring, of school 
days when he had won a Harvard 
scholarship, of his brilliant career in the 
busy West, but as the days unfolded 
their glowing flower of biography, Jean 
found that, manlike, despite his untiring 
forethought for her comfort, Robert Lor- 
ing had undervalued what his mother 
longed for most, his presence! that five 
thoughtless years had sped busily away 
since his last home-coming, years so long 
and lonely for the little cripple in Pine 
Tree Lane that a quick resentment 
flamed loyally up in Jean’s awakening 
53 


In t be 


heart and her eyes softened in a new un- 
derstanding of the many devices by 
which Aunt Cheerful Loring had some- 
how contrived to color the barren years. 

“But this Christmas,” Aunt Cheerful 
was wont to finish her eloquent mono- 
graph, “he is surely coming for he has 
written so much about it and oh, my 
dear!” — with shining eyes — “what a 
very wonderful Christmas I shall have 
indeed!” 

Thus, imperceptibly, the strange and 
whimsical comradeship of these two 
women grew into something stronger, 
something so deep and beautiful that the 
Lady Ariel’s face grew to mirror its im- 
print. And Aunt Cheerful, clinging 
wistfully to the companionship of this 
54 


of t&e Cftti0tma0 Plne0 

lovable, mysterious guest who had come 
straight into her heart from the wind 
and rain, deftly lured the Lady Ariel 
into lingering. 

Came the busy fortnight before Christ- 
mas, and over the snowy ridges peeped 
the December sun like the round and 
jolly face of the Christmas Saint with his 
snow-beard veiling the hills and the 
river-valley below. And now with a 
merry jingle of sleigh-bells Westowe 
awoke to the activities of the season and 
Aunt Cheerful’s crutch was never so 
busy tap ! tap ! tapping about with end- 
less plans for “Son Robert’s Christmas.” 
Nights Lord Chesterfield’s eyes shone 
with suppressed excitement as he court- 
eously regaled his noble friends with the 
55 


Jin tfce ^ean 

village news, and betimes with a won- 
derful new glow about her heart, the 
Lady Ariel set out one morning for the 
busy city to the South upon a tour of 
Christmas shopping. 

There were many errands, and when 
at night-fall tired and happy, Jean hur- 
ried to the station laden with bundles, 
the mail train was already traveling lei- 
surely up the valley. Wherefore this 
light-hearted Christmas shopper rode 
homeward over the country roads in a 
livery sleigh, cheeks aglow with the win- 
ter cold and eyes alive to the still white 
beauty of the winter night. 

It was already supper-time when the 
sleigh turned into Pine Tree Lane and 
Jean, entering softly at the rear to sur- 
56 


of the Cfiti0tma0 pfne0 

prise Aunt Cheerful, halted noiselessly 
in the kitchen. For though the room be- 
yond was quite empty save for the hum- 
ming Emperor and the busy swash- 
buckler in the fire, Aunt Cheerful was 
chatting away to an invisible guest. 
And these were the words Lady Ariel 
heard : 

“A biscuit, Robert 4 ? . . . Certainly. 
Oh, I am so sorry Lady Ariel missed her 
train. She has grown so fond of my bis- 
cuit. . . . And here, my dear boy, is 
your favorite jam. . . . Robert,” she 
said wistfully, “I do so wish you could 
grow to love my beautiful Lady Ariel. 
Each day she grows more lovely. She 
is so quick and sweet and tireless, so 
ever-mindful of my comfort and my 
57 


In the 

poor lame foot. . . . And do you know, 
Robert, I can not help thinking that with 
her wonderful gray eyes and the shining 
masses of her dark hair, she must be very 
like my Lady in the Fire. . . . To be 
sure, Robert, you are right as always. 
... It is true that I have never seen the 
face in the fireglow but I would so like 
that daughter of my dreams to be like my 
dear, dear Lady Ariel. . . . No! No! 
Robert, I do not know who she is ... I 
will not ask her that. . . . Surely she 
will tell me in her own good time if she 
wishes me to know. And, besides, has 
she not asked me to trust her? . . . And 
Robert, it is so very odd. Though she 
has the white and beautiful hands of a 
princess with never a mark of toil upon 
58 


of t&e Christmas pines 

them, yet she has scrubbed and swept 
and ironed and baked for me as busily as 
a farmer’s daughter. She is so quick to 
learn, so gentle and tactful — Oh, Rob- 
ert !” — her voice shook with a little sob — 
“I’m altogether a very foolish old woman 
but I’ve grown to love her so that I can 
not let her go out of my life as swiftly 
and strangely as she came into it. If 
only you would come and help me keep 
her—” 

But the Lady Ariel was gone, out into 
the shadows of the pines, the hot tears 
raining down her face. 

And late that night a telegram went 
singing over the wires to Denver, a tele- 
gram having to do with a flame-colored 
satin and a case of jewels. 

59 














4 

* 













t 








% 










































» 





IV 

H ROM Aunt Cheerful’s kitchen 
came the sound of a woman 
singing, of footsteps, quick and 
light, and presently of a pleasant call 
through the doorway into the room be- 
yond. 

“Aunt Cheerful?” 

“Yes, Lady Ariel?” 

“I’ve polished the Emperor until he 
fairly illumines the kitchen !” 

“My dear, you pamper him too much !” 
“And I’ve made the salad for sup- 
per — ” 

“Bless your dear, generous heart, 
63 


3n tfce ^eatt 

child!’* exclaimed Aunt Cheerful. 
“You’re too good. Now come help me 
string cranberries for the chapel tree. 
I’m sure you’ll find it restful after such 
a busy hour in the kitchen.” 

So by the window the Lady Ariel and 
Aunt Cheerful gaily made crimson 
chains for a Christmas tree until the pur- 
ple of the twilight gathered among the 
pines and the swaggerer in the fire awoke 
to fight the gathering shadows with his 
busy sword of flame. By the window 
Jean stared absently out at the fading 
pines. 

“Aunt Cheerful?” 

“Yes, Lady Ariel.” 

“How wonderfully tranquil it all is 
here. See, it is beginning to snow. 

64 



So by tb* window the. Lady \rie 1 and AttUl Cheerful 
gam mv.de crimson ch.m s ; • ;» t bn*.- mas tree. 


> 





Jn tfie &eart 

chile !** exclaimed Aunt Cheerful. 
“You're too good. Now cone help me 
string cranberries for the chapel tree. 
I’m sure you’ll find it restful after such 
a busy hour in the kitchen." 

So by the window the La« Ariel and 
Aunt Cheerful gaily made crimson 
chains for a Christmas tree until the pur- 
ple of the twilight gathers mong the 
pines and the swaggerer in fh- lire awoke 
to fight the gat i»t >g shade * with his 
busy vord of fh By window 
Jean stared absently out at rl <■ fading 
pines. 

“Aunt Cheerful T 

“Yes, Lady Ariel.' 

“How wonderful U inqui] .t all is 
here. See, it is begr- mg to snow. 

t»4 



So by the window the Lady Ariel and Aunt Cheerful 
gaily made crimson chains for a Christmas tree. 




• I I 





























































of the Chri0tnta0 Pine0 

White and drifting feathers of peace, 
I’m sure ! Oh, Aunt Cheerful,” she said 
with a little sigh, “how much I envy 
you!” 

“Envy me, Lady Ariel?” 

“Yes. Your cottage and your pines 
and the quiet of this dear old lane. 
Somehow I have grown to love it all! 
And then all your friends here in Wes- 
towe.” 

“But surely, child, you too have 
friends!” 

“Not so sincere and loyal as yours, 
Aunt Cheerful. And then you have 
Lord Chesterfield and your — your son in 
the West and I have no one.” 

“No one!” 

“No one!” Jean repeated. “Never a 

65 


M t&e l^eatt 

kinsman even, save a nomadic uncle 
with a strain of gipsy blood in his veins 
and even he faded out of my life like all 
the others years ago. It — it is a very 
odd thing, Aunt Cheerful, to be quite 
alone, and sometimes it is very, very 
lonely.” 

“Oh, my dear Lady Ariel!” exclaimed 
Aunt Cheerful in real distress. “I am 
so sorry!” For an impetuous instant a 
question seemed to hover upon her lips, 
then with a quick movement of decision 
she was tap-tapping about the room, 
lighting the lamp and drawing the 
shades. 

“Come, come, Lady Ariel!” she ex- 
claimed, smiling. “You’re not in your 
usual good spirits to-night! We’ll set 

66 


of the Clm'0tma0 pine# 

the Emperor to singing and have our 
tea!” 

But Jean’s depression lingered and so 
it was that when Lord Chesterfield 
peered into her shadowy corner by the 
fire that night, her chair was empty. 

“Good evening - , Lady Cheerful!” he 
said, disappointment in his voice. 

“Why, good evening, Lord Chester- 
field. Dear, dear! your Lordship’s cap 
is full of snow !” 

“It is nothing, madam, I assure you! 
I trust your Ladyship is well?” 

“Very well indeed.” 

“And the Lady Ariel ?” 

“Well” — Aunt Cheerful hesitated — 
“a little quiet and tired, I should say. 
She has gone up to bed.” 

67 


3tt the l^eart 

Into Lord Chesterfield’s eyes leaped a 
sudden excitement. 

“A ’normous box came by express,” he 
burst forth breathlessly, “and it was full 
up of spensive, glittery Christmas things 
for the chapel tree and — and — a letter 
came from a candy man and he said a 
strange lady’d bought and paid for 
s’ficient candy and oranges and — and 
everything for mos’ everybody in Wes- 
towe to be delivered at the Sunday 
School day before Christmas and — and 
presents came on ahead in a box ’cause 
they won’t spoil waitin’ and — and no- 
body knows — •” 

“Oh, my dear Lord Chesterfield,” 
broke in Aunt Cheerful in alarm, “do, 
do, my dear boy, take a breath!” 

68 


of the Christmas Pines 

“Who sent ’em!” finished Lord Ches- 
terfield. “And Grandmother Radcliffe 
she reckons maybe Lady Ariel is a prin- 
cess in disguise and she sent ’em.” 

“A princess in disguise!” exclaimed 
Aunt Cheerful. “Dear, dear, that would 
be strange !” 

“And maybe,” went on Lord Chester- 
field in growing excitement, “maybe 
your Ladyship will rec’lect how my dog 
medicines were gettin’ pretty low and 
owin’ to er — to — er — ” His Lordship 
cleared his throat with a prodigious 
“Hum! — I beg your Ladyship’s pardon 
but — er — were financial embarrassments 
just the words you told me that time 1 ?” 

“Financial embarrassment!” nodded 
Aunt Cheerful gravely. 

69 


3tt tbe Ibeart 

“Owing to my financial embarrass- 
ments I couldn’t buy more till after 
Christmas and — and this morning, 
ma’am, there was an express package for 
me with witch-hazel and arnica and 
sponges and liniments and bandages and 
mos’ a reg’lar doctor’s outfit in it. Mos’ 
likely I’ll ’speriment on Carlo’s rheuma- 
tism to-night with a new liniment.” 

“Now I do wonder,” mused Aunt 
Cheerful absently, “if your mysterious 
friend could possibly be the one who 
keeps my garden so trim and chops my 
kindlings. Dear, dear! What a very 
strange and mysterious place Westowe 
has become!” 

Lord Chesterfield’s fine little face col- 
ored hotly. 


70 


of the Chrt0tma0 Piite0 


“I hardly think they are the same,” 
he owned honestly; then, quick contri- 
tion in his eyes, he vaulted lightly over 
the window sill and drew a letter from 
his pocket. “Oh, Lady Cheerful,” he 
apologized, “I do beg your Ladyship’s 
pardon. Fact is, I — I mos’ forgot your 
letter!” 

“Why, bless your heart, child,” ex- 
claimed Aunt Cheerful warmly, “who 
wouldn’t forget a letter with such a 
magic box on his mind ! Your Lordship 
will pardon me if I read it this very 
minute ? It’s from my son !” And Lord 
Chesterfield bowed a courtly acqui- 
escence. 

So with swift color in her cheeks, Aunt 
Cheerful read, but as she read her hand 
7 1 


3tt ti)t l^eart 

began to tremble and suddenly the 
letter fluttered unheeded to the floor and 
a great tear rolled slowly down her face 
and splashed on the white woolen gown. 
And even as he watched, his grave little 
face perturbed, the mantle of formal 
courtesy vanished and Lord Chesterfield 
sprang forward, a kindly little lad alive 
with sympathy. 

“Oh, Aunt Cheerful,” he blurted boy- 
ishly, “I’m awfully sorry !” 

But with a muffled sob Aunt Cheerful 
patted his arm, taking refuge in the 
words of the game they played. 

“It — it is nothing at all, Lord Chester- 
field, I assure you!” she said bravely. 
“My busy son writes me that — that after 
all he can not come for Christmas.” 


72 


of tfce Cfctfstmas; Pines 


But even as she bent to regain the let- 
ter, she began trembling and crying 
again so pitifully that Lord Chester- 
field’s face colored darkly and for all he 
bit his lips like the brave little fighter 
he was at all times, still a great sob 
welled up in his own throat and his eyes 
grew gentle. And presently in the quiet, 
Aunt Cheerful felt the diffident touch 
of a boyish hand upon her shoulder and 
looking up met the eyes of the little her- 
mit, oddly resolute for all their sym- 
pathy. 

“Aunt Cheerful,” said he firmly, “I — 
I’m ’fraid I’d better stay here all night. 
Fact is,” with a squaring of chin and 
shoulders, “I feel that you’d better have 
a man in the house.” 


73 


In t be l^eart 

But Aunt Cheerful’s wan smile bore 
in it something resolute of her old 
cheeriness. 

“Oh, my dear boy,” she exclaimed 
gratefully, “it is more than good of you 
to offer, but you must remember poor 
Carlo’s rheumatism and the new lini- 
ment and all the responsibilities of your 
bachelor life. And anyway I’m quite 
alright now. Silly old women have such 
spells.” 

So presently, after a deal of urging, 
Lord Chesterfield departed and Aunt 
Cheerful went tap! tap! tapping softly 
out into the kitchen to mix her bread. 
And even as she worked, a perturbed lit- 
tle sentinel with a round boyish face 
peered furtively in at the kitchen win- 
74 


of tfte Christmas Pines 

dow, loath to leave the cottage among 
the pines when sorrow lay upon it. 

Now as Aunt Cheerful worked she be- 
gan to sing, and the song was one that 
had often bolstered her waning courage 
before. And surely in the very words of 
it lay the fragrance of her own resource- 
ful cheeriness. 

“There is ever a song somewhere, my dear; 

In the midnight black or the midday blue ; 
The robin pipes when the sun is here, 

And the cricket chirrups the whole night 
through. 

The buds may blow and the fruit may grow, 
And the Autumn leaves drop crisp and sere; 
But whether the sun or the rain or the snow, 
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear.” 

Whereat, hearing the cheerful song of 
his honored lady, a great relief shone 
75 


In t|je ^eart of t be Cimsttnas ptne$ 

suddenly in Lord Chesterfield’s anxious 
eyes, and whistling softly to himself he 
disappeared among the pines. 










V 


© 


k UT to-night as Lord Chester- 
field hurried down through the 
quiet of the village to his 
weather-beaten shack along the river, 
his whistle grew slightly erratic and 
presently ceased altogether, and when 
at last he removed the rusty key from 
the nail by the door, his shining eyes and 
grim little chin betokened an unusual 
excitement and determination. 

In the single room of his shanty Lord 
Chesterfield lit his lamp, and truly light 
never fell upon a stranger boyhood shel- 
ter. For the hermit’s rude bed was 


79 


3n tf )t Ibeart 

neatly made and the floor as neatly 
swept, his battered cookstove polished 
and the medicine bottles upon his 
rickety table ranged in a careful row. 
And once the busy hermit had raked his 
fire into a bright and warming glow, for 
all its lonely rattling when the wind 
blew, the river shanty was as snug and 
neat a place as one might find. 

Now as Lord Chesterfield bustled en- 
ergetically about the fire, there came a 
whining and a scratching at the shanty 
door and, as he opened it, a huge dog 
limped slowly in with a joyous bark of 
greeting. With ready affection in his 
eyes, the hermit bent and patted the 
shaggy brown head of his visitor, for 
this was Carlo, the toll-gate keeper’s old 
80 


of tfje Christmas Pines 

and rheumatic pensioner, who nightly 
limped up the tow-path to be properly 
bathed and petted. And the dialogue of 
the gallant Doctor and his patient-in- 
chief barely varied. 

“Good evening, Carlo!” (very brisk 
and professional) . 

A joyous bark. 

“And how is the rheumatism to- 
night 1 ?” 

A very great wagging of a very bushy 
tail but a bark of considerable uncer- 
tainty. 

“Hum! Well, well, we’ll have to at- 
tend to that. Step right over this way 
if you please !” And the Doctor, frown- 
ing portentously, bathed Carlo’s flank 
ever so gently, with now and then a 
81 


3n t&e l^eart 

kindly word of reassurance. These 
medical attentions properly completed, 
Carlo, whose sense of professional eti- 
quette was none too keen, fell to nosing 
frankly about the hut until he found a 
certain plate of scraps, and having 
neatly attended to this single spot of dis- 
order, he limped back to the hermit and 
suggestively lowered his handsome head. 
Whereupon the Doctor removed a very 
small package tied to his collar and 
grandly bowed his patient to the door. 

A blast of wind rattled the shanty as 
Carlo departed. On tiptoe the hermit 
locked the door, carefully drew the 
shades, and with infinite caution re- 
moved a plank from the floor. Very 
furtively he drew forth a dirty canvas 
82 


of tfje C&ristmas pines 

bag, pitifully small for all its pleasant 
clink and unwrapped Carlo’s package, a 
coin which Carlo’s kindly master nightly 
sent for Carlo’s fee. Then together with 
such coins as he could spare from the 
day’s proceeds this provident little her- 
mit hid them all away again in the can- 
vas bag beneath the plank, for this was 
the hidden hoard that Lord Chesterfield 
fancied would one day make him a very 
great doctor. 

And as the final task of the busy even- 
ing, the hermit wrote a letter. 

“December 18th. 

“ Dear Mr . Robert Loring: 

“She got your letter and cried and she 
most alwus never cries so shaky, Aunt 
83 


3n tfje l^catt 

Cheerful Loring I mean. Oh, please do 
come ! She feels so awful bad and once 
when I was awful sick this winter she 
lived three days in this old shanty here 
with me and sat up all night account of 
medacines and no other bed and she read 
me every day bout Lord Chesterfield and 
I’d like to do something big for her she’s 
so awful brave and so awful lame. 
Sometimes like to-night when I looked 
in the winda she sings to keep her spirits 
up. Oh, please, please Mr. Loring, 
can’t we maybe surprise her for Christ- 
mas ? I do most everything I can for her 
but just one thing you could do would 
be more than all. Five years is awful 
long. Most likely you won’t know who 
I am unless she wrote. She calls me 
84 


of tfte Christmas Pttte0 

Lord Chesterfield and lots of folks here 
call me Doc and the hermut but, sir, I 
have the honer to sine myself — 

“Norman Varian.” 

For so Lord Chesterfield fancied his 
illustrious namesake might finish such a 
letter. 

And as he sealed the letter, the boy 
looked wistfully up at a ragged photo- 
graph of his dead father tacked carefully 
above the table and very slowly he read 
aloud the single line of writing beneath 
it. 

“Always remember, little son,” it read, 
“that first of all, though you’ve seen 
hard times, you’re a gentleman !” 

And suddenly Lord Chesterfield’s 

85 


In t be ^eart 

brave little head went forward upon his 
hands with a choking sob, for after all 
he was only a proud and lonely little 
bachelor who had greatly loved his 
father. 

So the little hermit’s letter went forth 
upon a Christmas mission to come to its 
final goal in a luxurious suite of offices 
in Denver on the desk of Robert Loring. 
And Robert Loring read the eloquent 
plea with unwonted color in his face and 
a startled shame in his fine eyes, for, un- 
consciously vivid, the boy’s letter had 
strikingly bared the inner life of his 
brave and cheerful mother. 

“Five years!” said Robert Loring 
aghast. “It can’t be !” 

But swiftly reviewing the years 
86 


of tfje Cfcd0tma0 Pine 0 

crowded with activity he knew that the 
little hermit had written the truth, and 
he flushed again. For the thought of his 
mother’s lonely life in Pine Tree Lane 
subtly dwarfed the urgent calls of effort 
and ambition which had kept him from 
her. A giant hand of rebuke indeed that 
Lord Chesterfield had wielded. 

So, swiftly over the night wires went 
a telegram to one Norman Varian, and 
even as Robert Loring wrote the lad’s 
name, he stared at it very thoughtfully. 


87 



VI 

3Frnm tty? 


a&mu of 








VI 


SB 


TILDLY the Christmas moon 
rose over Westowe, silvering 
the snowy hill-gables to the 
north and the covered bridge ; trailing a 
snow-white ribbon of light through Pine 
Tree Lane, and mantling the cottage 
among the pines with the peaceful moon- 
fire of a Christmas Eve. 

And up through the snow-sparkle of 
the steep moon-lit path to the chapel on 
the hill climbed Aunt Cheerful Loring, 
helped ever so gently upward by the 
sturdy arm of gallant Lord Chesterfield. 
Snow-sparkle and a Christmas moon and 
91 


In tfce ^eart 

the sound of the chapel organ through 
the lighted windows above ! What 
wonder that all of it lured Aunt Cheer- 
ful to climb as she had never climbed 
before, with scarcely a thought for the 
poor lame foot. 

“Not so fast, Lady Cheerful!” begged 
the boy gently. 

“But, my dear Lord Chesterfield,” 
urged Aunt Cheerful with a brisk tap! 
tap! of her crutch, “I can not possibly 
miss any of this wonderful Christmas 
celebration for which you have worked 
so busily and — hear! already they are 
singing the Christmas hymn!” 

Down through the cold air from the 
moonlit chapel above came the sound of 
a reverent chorus chanting “Holy 
92 


of ti)t Christmas Kt>tne0 


Night,” and Lord Chesterfield’s brown 
eyes glowed strangely. 

“It — it is only the song service they 
have beforehand,” he said re-assuringly, 
“for — for to-night, Aunt Cheerful,” he 
added with smothered excitement, “they 
can’t begin without me!” 

Pine and holly and tinsel and gifts, 
so they loomed ahead as Lord Chester- 
field led his honored lady to her pew 
and bent over her with a flame of color 
in his smooth, young cheeks. 

“Aunt Cheerful,” he stammered ex- 
citedly, “I — I beg your Ladyship’s par- 
don but — but will you please ’scuse me 
now. I — I’ve got a mos’ important er- 
rand!” 

Primly the hermit had climbed the 
93 


In tbe ^eatt 

chapel hill with his lady, but now with 
never a backward look he raced madly 
down the path and through the village 
to the railroad station, a flushed and 
panting youngster trembling with ex- 
citement. Far below where rails and 
moonlit sky merged appeared a light and 
upon its steadily growing disk Lord 
Chesterfield fixed his eyes in a fever of 
fascination. Chug-a-chug ! Chug-a- 
chug ! Chug-a-chug ! How desperately 
slow it crept up through the snow-silver 
of the valley ! And how wildly the her- 
mit’s glowing heart pounded away be- 
neath his Sunday suit ! 

On came the train at last and halted, 
and presently Lord Chesterfield was 
hurrying excitedly down the platform 
94 


of tfje Christmas pittes 

toward a man, young and tall, whose 
handsome eyes were surely of a most 
familiar blue. Gravely the little hermit 
raised his cap and bowed. 

“Good evening!” he ventured stur- 
dily “Are you — are you Mr. Robert 
Loring*?” 

“Robert Loring, indeed!” answered 
the young man gravely; “and very much 
at your service.” And his eyes were 
gentle as he held out his hand. “And 
you, I take it, are Lord Chesterfield him- 
self. Well, sir, I’m glad to know you.” 

Now there was such an earnest ring 
of respect and deference in this young 
man’s pleasant voice that Lord Chester- 
field colored with pleasure. So, very 
gravely, these two shook hands and, still 
95 


In tfje ^catt 

finely punctilious, the little hermit 
cleared his throat. 

“May I,” he queried politely — “may 
I — er — take you to my — er — bachelor 
’partments for something to eat first?” 

Robert Loring’s keen eyes traveled 
over the manly figure of his little friend 
with never a smile. 

“Let me thank your Lordship,” he said 
gratefully, “but I’ve already dined. 
From now on, sir, my time is yours.” 

Lord Chesterfield grasped his arm in 
a spasm of excitement. 

“Oh, sir, Mr. Robert,” he burst forth 
in great relief, “I am so awful glad, for 
there ain’t a single minute to lose. Bill 
Flittergill, sir, he went and bust his arm 
a while back and oh, sir, will you come 
96 


of the Clm0tma0 Pine0 

to the chapel and take his place and dress 
up in the Santa Claus suit and — give the 
presents and — and when I say like this — 
‘Lord Chesterfield’s present to Aunt 
Cheerful Loring with his respects!’ will 
you just — just take off your mask when 
she comes up and oh — sir, will you?” 

And Robert Loring rested one hand 
very gently on the boy’s shoulder. 

“Old chap,” he said huskily, “I want 
you to understand that I leave every- 
thing, absolutely everything to you. 
I’ve managed things long enough and it 
seems to me I’ve made a most astonish- 
ing mess of it!” 

So that night in Westowe Chapel a 
broad-shouldered Kris Kringle dis- 
pensed the Christmas gifts as the her- 
97 


Utt tbt J^eart 

mit directed until the glittering tree was 
fairly stripped and the magic box quite 
empty, and at last with a hoarse little 
quaver in his voice, Lord Chesterfield 
came to the final name upon his list. 

“Lord Chesterfield’s present to Aunt 
Cheerful Loring!” he announced with a 
gulp, and, coloring with pleasure, Aunt 
Cheerful came hurrying up the aisle with 
a brisk tap ! tap ! of her crutch. 

“Now, oh, now, Mr. Robert!” 
prompted Kris Kringle’s agitated helper. 
So with a hand that visibly shook, Rob- 
ert Loring removed his beard and mask 
and stepped from the Christmas shadow 
of the pine boughs. 

For a tense instant Aunt Cheerful 
stared, stared at the smiling face of her 

98 


of tfce Christmas pines 

big and gallant son with eyes so wild and 
startled that she seemed but a pitiful lit- 
tle crippled ghost swaying weakly upon 
her crutch, then the ever-busy crutch fell 
unheeded to the floor and Aunt Cheerful 
Loring fell sobbing to her knees, one 
trembling out-stretched hand clutching 
desperately at the ragged fur on Kris 
Kringle’s coat as if to keep the dear 
apparition from fading away again be- 
fore her very eyes. 

“Oh, Robert, oh, my dear boy!” she 
cried incoherently. “It — it was the 
Christmas pines as the gipsy said — ” 
then in the hush that spread electrically 
over the little chapel, she began to shake 
and sob and laugh so queerly that Lord 
Chesterfield leaped to her side. But 
99 


In t&e ^eart of tfje C&tistmas pines 


Robert Loring, with misty eyes, bent 
and gently raised his mother to her feet. 

“Brave, brave little mother!” he said 
huskily. “I did not know.” 

Somewhere in the tear-dimmed host 
of friends within the chapel, a kindly 
voice in a wave of quick consideration 
for the tearful little cripple clinging so 
pitifully to her son, struck up the Christ- 
mas hymn and once more, that eventful 
Christmas Eve, the strains of ‘ 
Night” went sweeping out from tl 
chapel over the moonlit snow. 







« 



I • 











’EAN WHILE in the Pine 
Bough Bedroom, Jean was 
writing a letter. 

“My maid, Celeste, has forwarded to 
me your letter,” she wrote, “and now 
when I know that I must write you where 
I am and why I have come here, that at 
last I must answer your insistent ques- 
tion, oh, Robert ! — it is very hard indeed. 

“How mockingly to-night your words 


are ringing in my ears ! 

“ ‘And so,’ you said that memorable 
night, ‘it is but right for me to tell you 


now, Jean, that with marriage, if you 


103 



0 





3n tfte i^eart 


grant me that happiness, my brave and 
lonely little mother comes back into my 
home-life for all time !’ 

“Very handsome and very resolute you 
looked, but Robert, I wonder if you 
guessed what a queer resentful chill 
crept into my selfish heart at your words. 
Like a grim leper stalking at my side 
rose the thought that once more Life was 
ironically robbing me of its finest and 
sweetest. Oh, Robert, how can I write 
you now that I did not want your mother 
in my home and life, intruding upon the 
first happiness of my lonely life — that I 
wanted only you ! 

“I asked you to wait without seeing 
me again until I should write you and 
with Celeste’s connivance I slipped away 


104 


of the Christmas Pines 


in the night, bent upon the maddest, 
crudest whim that ever selfish heart de- 
vised. For I came to the little village 
you had so often described — to Westowe 
— and I came — yes, I must write it all 
crude and narrow as it is — to appraise, 
to coldly analyze and dissect — your 
mother, to see if I deemed her worthy 
a place in my home and my new life with 
you! And out of the rain and dark, 
Fate’s twinkling light lured me to her 
very door! 

“For, Robert, I am here in the dear 
peace and quiet of this pine-scented 
lane, unknown, unquestioned, trusted 
as I surely do not deserve, lingering on 
day by day with this dear, brave little 
mother of yours, and now I know that it 

105 


3n t be l^eatt 


is I who am not worthy, that my very 
quest was a profanation that makes my 
cheeks burn with the utter shame of it. 
And something has stirred in my lonely 
heart at the sight of her that has been 
hushed since early childhood. So often 
these days I find myself repeating those 
wonderful words of Lowell’s : 

“ ‘The leper no longer crouched at his side, 
But stood before him glorified, 

Shining and tall and fair and straight 
As the pillar that stood by the Beautiful 
Gate. 

And the Voice that was calmer than silence 
said 

“Lo, it is I, be not afraid ! 

In many climes, without avail, 

106 


of the Ct)ti0tma0 Ptne0 


Thou hast spent thy life for the Holy Grail 
Behold it is here.” ’ ” 



“So the leper of selfish resentment no 
longer crouches at my side. Instead 
there is something so shining and beauti- 
ful that I grow afraid. ‘In many climes 
without avail!’ And even that is I, 
Egypt and India and Syria and the ut- 
termost parts of the world, so in a mad 
search for life I have gone and gone 
again and here in the heart of the pines 
I have found life and peace and love, 
the Holy Grail. 

“After all, Robert, how much of life’s 
heart-glow I have been denied until now. 
Those black and bitter childhood days, 
the under-current of resentment because 
the only heir to the Varian millions was 



In t be J^eart 

not a boy, the tearless agony of the 
nights when first divorce and later death 
took my father and mother out of my 
life and I cried for sisters, for brothers, 
for cousins, for anything in God’s world 
to give some touch of humanness to my 
barren life — such is my cycle of memory. 
I wonder if you can guess the utter deso- 
lation that comes with the knowledge 
that you are quite alone with never a 
single blood-tie to warm the ice about 
your heart. 

“But, now, I have worked with my 
hands. I have scrubbed and ironed and 
baked, I have lived for another besides 
myself, I have watched the lives of two 
whose brave and cheerful compassion 
for each other bears in it the touch of 
108 


of tfje Cf)ri0tma0 Pines 

holiness and I have come to know a wee 
soldier whose sturdiness on life’s firing 
line, like that of your mother, has 
shamed me again and again. Such a 
wonderfully courteous little lad he is, 
Robert, with his hermit hut and his 
buried savings and his dreams of becom- 
ing a very great doctor. And some day 
when I can devise a way of breaking 
through the wall of his pride, I am going 
to make him what he dreams. Robert, 
I think the ice is melting around my 
heart at last. I am gaining a broader 
vision. 

“Lady Ariel — it is so Aunt Cheerful 
calls me. Oh, Robert, how can I go to 
her and tell her why I came, how I linger 
here day by day hoping for courage to 
109 


In tbe J^eart 

ask her pardon. And it has grown even 
harder now that I know that she would 
have the kind and beautiful wife of her 
son like Lady Ariel, that she has whim- 
sically chosen to see in me her fanciful 
Lady of the Fireglow garbed won- 
drously in flame-colored satin! For 
how can I let her glimpse the cruel 
canker that lay in the heart of the daugh- 
ter of her dreams. On the bed as I write 
lies a gown of ‘flame-colored satin’ and 
the Varian jewels, and this moonlit 
Christmas Eve when she comes from the 
chapel, I shall go to her as she has 
dreamed of me and on my knees I shall 
beg her forgiveness and a place in the 
beautiful shrine of her brave and cheer- 
ful heart. 


no 


of the Christmas pines 

“Oh, Robert, pray for me that I may 
not hurt her!” 

Very thoughtfully Jean sealed the 
letter and directed it to Robert Loring, 
then she began a brisk pilgrimage about 
the quiet house. Holly and mistletoe 
and Christmas wreaths came mysteri- 
ously to light from a box beneath the 
Lady Ariel’s bed, and soon the cottage 
among the pines smiled cheerfully 
through a Christmas flare of pine and 
holly. For Aunt Cheerful’s Christmas 
interest had somehow waned after Rob- 
ert’s letter, and at the hermit’s diffident 
suggestion, Lady Ariel had taken the 
pleasant task upon herself. 

And when the deft and busy decorator 
had finished her work, she slipped into 


^ * 


it 

-It 


In t&e l^eart 

her cloak and went hurrying through the 
village toward the covered bridge. 
Very lonely and small the hermit’s hut 
in the moonlight and with a catch in her 
throat, Jean took the rusty key from the 
nail and entered. Only Aunt Cheerful 
and Lady Ariel knew the secret of the 
buried savings. So to-night Jean hur- 
riedly searched the hermit’s floor for a 
certain creaking board, and when at last 
she drew forth the pitiful little canvas 
bag, she stuffed it full of greenbacks. 

The chill silver of the winter moon- 
light flooded brightly through the open 
door, haloing the figure of the girl upon 
her knees in the desolate shanty and 
flashing full upon the ragged photo- 
graph above the table. So as Jean 


1 12 




- our v as ba^ and s tufted 
• ; *. ir’CCiiki- ks. 


3n m i;Wtt 

her cloak and went hurrying through the;; 



village toward the covered bridge. 
Very lonely and small the Mn|| hut 


in the moonlight and with a catch in her 
throat, Jean took the rusty key fapw the 
nail and entered. Only i 



and Lady Ariel knew the secret 
buried savings. So to nig! t .lean Mrv 


riedly searched tlie hermi t <. riuoi 1 cv\ ti 

certain creaking board, and when aft msl 
' 

bag, she stuffed it full of greenbacks. 

The chill silver of the winter moon- 
light flooded brightly through the oper 
door, haloing the figure of the girl upon 
her knees in the desolate shanty and 
flashing full upon the ragged photo- 
graph above the table. So as Jean 




1X2 



Jean drew forth the pitiful little canvas bag and stuffed 
it full of greenbacks. 



































































































































































































































































































































































of tfje Christmas pines 

turned, her startled eyes rested directly 
upon the features of the hermit’s father, 
and the girl stared aghast, her face white 
in the moonlight. For the face was the 
face of her nomad Uncle whose life had 
been irrevocably marred by the cruelty 
of her father. And as Jean stared, 
somewhere within her the ice melted for 
all time. Starved and eager strands of 
kinsmanship went flying out to twine 
hungrily about the gallant heart of Lord 
Chesterfield, and there upon her knees 
in the river shack, the heiress to the 
Varian millions fell to sobbing and 
praying incoherently for the love of her 
little cousin. And even as she prayed, 
faintly over the village came the echo of 
the Christmas hymn. 

113 


# 



VIII 


Utyp Idatig of tlje 
$m-(&law 









I 








s 

























VIII 

X NTENT in the kitchen upon 
the preparation of a little sur- 
prise supper for Aunt Cheerful 
and the hermit, Jean had not heard the 
opening of the cottage door and there- 
fore when a man’s pleasant voice broke 
in upon her thoughts, she started so vio- 
lently that the spoon in her hand went 
clattering to the floor. 

“I beg your pardon,” said Robert Lor- 
ing, “but my mother bade me tell the 
Lady Ariel that she has gone with Hiram 
Scudder to carry the chapel’s Christmas 
gifts to the poor of Westowe.” 

1 17 


3n the ^eatt 


But oddly enough there was no answer 
at all from the white-aproned worker in 
his mother’s kitchen, moreover she did 
not even turn her head and a little puz- 
zled, Robert Loring raised his voice. 

“I beg your pardon,” he began again 
and halted — for Lady Ariel had turned 
as he spoke with a wistful smile of 
apology about her lips. 

Unutterable astonishment flamed up 
in Robert Loring’s eyes, but he did not 
speak, for there was something in Jean’s 
face that somehow made the power of 
words depart. In a queer silence they 
faced each other, Robert Loring’s mem- 
ory flashing back to the night at the 
opera when he had first seen this girl be- 
fore him in the white and silver of trail- 
118 


of t|je C&tt0tma0 Pine0 

ing satin, when the beautiful chill and 
bitterness of her eyes had left their im- 
print upon his soul for eternity. There 
were no' shadows in her eyes to-night; 
and smoothing away the lines of soul- 
rebellion, a new strength and sweetness 
lay wistfully about her mouth. Ruffled 
hair and toil-marked hands! With a 
sudden bound, Robert Loring caught the 
girl’s hands within his own. 

“Oh, Jean, Jean!” he cried wonder- 
ingly, “what does it all mean? Celeste 
would not tell me where you had gone.” 
But Jean slipped from his arms with a 
laugh that was half a sob. 

“Oh, no! no! Robert,” she said 
bravely, “you must read your letter first 
and know me for what I am.” 


3n t&e ^eart 


So by the kitchen window, Robert Lor- 
ing read his letter and when he finished 
his eyes were very thoughtful. 

“Jean, dear,” he said gently, “there 
is much for which you and I must one 
day beg my little mother’s pardon but 
surely you have not erred so much as I.” 

By the fireglow with the Emperor 
humming a festive prediction of tea for 
the Christmas supper, Robert Loring 
heard the story of Lady Ariel’s whim- 
sical journey and its climax in the her- 
mit’s hut, but when the jingle of sleigh- 
bells outside announced the halting of 
Hiram Scudder’s sleigh Jean went flying 
happily from the room and up the stairs. 

With a tap! tap! tapping! of the 
crutch — never so brisk and cheerful as 


120 


of tfce e&ri$tma$ pines 

to-night, Aunt Cheerful presently en- 
tered upon the arm of the gallant her- 
mit. 

“Oh, Robert, my dear boy!” she ex- 
claimed happily. “How very like my 
dear Lady Ariel to surprise me with all 
this glow of holly and the Christmas 
wreaths. You can not imagine how 
cheerily they smiled at me through the 
pines! And dear me, bless the child’s 
heart, the table is set for a little supper 
and the Emperor singing a Christmas 
hymn. Never, never was there such an- 
other Christmas since the world began.” 

But Robert Loring drew his mother 
to a seat by the fire and gently began to 
tell her something of the wife who was 
to come at last into his mother’s life and 


121 


3ht tfje ^eatt 

his own, and somehow as he talked Aunt 
Cheerful grew very quiet and a little 
sad and presently she turned quite 
around that she might not look into the 
fireglow for since Lady Ariel’s coming 
she had made wistful plans of her own 
about Son Robert’s wife and the fire- 
glow mocked her with the impotency of 
them all. And when a quick step on the 
stairway betokened the return of Lady 
Ariel, a great tear rolled slowly down 
Aunt Cheerful’s face and turning she 
fell back in her chair with a cry of awe. 

For surely so radiant a Christmas vi- 
sion never stood framed in a holly- 
crowned doorway before. Flame-col- 
ored satin trailed about the Lady Ariel’s 
slender figure; diamonds flashed about 


122 


of tfte Cf)ri0tma0 pines 


her throat and hair. And as she gasped 
and stared, first at the eloquent eyes of 
her son and then at the Christmas vision 
in the doorway, Aunt Cheerful Loring 
knew the truth. With a wild tapping of 
her crutch she went flying swiftly across 
the quiet room. 

“Oh, my beautiful Lady of the Fire- 
glow!” she cried, sobbing for the very 
joy of it all. “My dear, dear Lady 
Ariel!” 

And Lord Chesterfield, kindly little 
courtier that he was, began briskly to 
poke the fire that he might not be an 
outside witness to this Christmas scene 
of joy and reunion, but a great loneli- 
ness swept over him and all the while he 
was stirring up the sleepy swashbuckler 
123 


In the ^eatt 

in the fire he was swallowing manfully. 
So in his tearful abstraction the hermit 
did not know that Jean’s eyes were full 
upon him or that with a soft rustle of the 
flame-colored satin she had crossed the 
room and seated herself beside him. 

“Lord Chesterfield,” said Jean gently, 
“all these wonderful days you have not 
once told me your Lordship’s name.” 

“Why, why, no, Lady Ariel,” stam- 
mered the boy in quick apology, “I 
haven’t. I do beg your Ladyship’s par- 
don. It is Norman Varian.” 

“Norman Varian!” repeated Jean. 
“It is a very familiar name, your Lord- 
ship.” 

Smiling Lady Ariel slipped a paper 
into the hermit’s hand. And these were 


124 


of t | )t Cf)ti0tma$ pines 

the very astonishing words the paper 
bore : 

“I hereby pledge myself by the memory of 
my dead uncle, Norman Varian, to make of 
my brave little cousin a gentleman and a 
scholar and a very great Doctor. 

“Christmas eve. Jean Varian.” 

And when Lord Chesterfield reached 
the familiar surname at the end, he knew 
why Lady Ariel’s beautiful face had 
haunted his dreams — it was a face very 
like the face of his dead father; more- 
over he knew why the look in the girl’s 
gray eyes had so hurt his throat for, un- 
like his own, they were Varian eyes. 
And as the brave little hermit slowly 
came to realize that in this lonely world 
125 


tl )t Ibeatt 


he was not quite alone, that here were 
kindly eyes that had the right of kins- 
manship to watch over his sturdy climb 
to manhood, his pride and independence 
ruthlessly deserted him and he dropped 
on his knees and buried his face in Jean’s 
lap, a forlorn little lad unnerved at the 
end of a gallant fight. 

“Oh, Cousin Jean,” he blurted with a 
great sob, “I been so awful lonely ’spe- 
cially when the wind blew nights and I 
missed daddy so and — and the canvas 
bag’s been fillin’ so awful slow and mos’ 
every rain there was a new leak — ” 

Jean stroked her cousin’s hair with a 
hand that trembled a little. 

Now in the silence that fell over the 
room, the wrathful Emperor burst sud- 
126 





of t&e Christmas Pittes 

denly into a perfect bubble of ferocity. 
He steamed and he hissed and he bub- 
bled and grumbled, he fumed at the 

t mouth and rattled his helmet and tossed 
his plume of steam about in an imperial 
rage, for when had royalty been so per- 
sistently ignored as on this Christmas 
Eve! And presently as the four sat 
down to the Christmas supper, through 
the moonlit pines came the sound of the 
chapel bell ringing in a Christmas morn- 


THE END 


VAIL- BALLOU CO., BINGHAMTON AND NEW YORK 










